The Fred Vickery Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Fred Vickery Mysteries)

by Sherry Lewis

  He didn’t blame her. Joseph could always sway any of his siblings to his view within minutes—it’s what made him such a good attorney—but after she had some time to think about it, Margaret’s scales would tip back into balance and she’d see reason again. In the meantime, he’d sit in his favorite booth and enjoy the kind of peace and quiet he hadn’t found at home since Douglas arrived.

  FIFTEEN

  A few minutes later, Fred pushed open the door to the Bluebird and glanced around. George Newman sat on his usual stool at the counter and he greeted Fred with a slight incline of his head. “Got your boy out of jail this morning, I heard.”

  “Sure did.” Fred turned away quickly. He didn’t want to discuss Douglas or Garrett Locke with anyone, especially George.

  Naturally, George picked up his coffee cup and followed. “Heard he was looking a little peaked.”

  “I suppose anybody would after a night or two in jail.” Fred slipped out of his jacket, tossed it onto one cracked Naugahyde bench at the corner booth, and slid onto the other.

  Shoving Fred’s jacket out of the way, George took a seat. “Got yourselves a good attorney?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll want to talk to my boy David. He’s an attorney down in Aurora now, you know.”

  Fred managed not to make a face. “I didn’t know David handled this kind of thing.”

  “He doesn’t usually,” George said with a shrug, “but he’d do you a good job, since he knows you and all. You want his number?”

  If it would get George to leave him alone, Fred would take it willingly. “Might as well, I guess.”

  George dug out his wallet and pulled a business card from on top. He’d obviously come prepared. “I talked to him about your boy last night, just in case you were interested. He’ll be expecting your call.”

  Fred had no intention of calling David Newman, but he took the card and tucked it in his shirt pocket. As he remembered, David had been a stuffy-headed little boy who’d spent most of his childhood throwing rocks through other peoples’ windows.

  “I heard Albán Toth is going to testify that he saw Doug leaving Locke’s the night of the murder.” George’s lips curved in a sympathetic smile.

  Fred didn’t want George’s sympathy, his son’s telephone number, or his company right now. He wanted George to go away or be quiet, but he’d known George all his life and he knew better than to expect either.

  So he turned his thoughts back to his children, which made him think about Joseph. His stomach curdled and he decided, in the interest of his health, to ignore his oldest son. It didn’t do to give Joseph too much attention when he started spouting off ideas, and arguing with him never accomplished anything.

  George leaned back in his seat. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I was you. I learned a long time ago we can’t live our kids’ lives for ‘em. . .”

  If Fred gave Margaret time to calm down, she’d come to her senses. But he didn’t like thinking she’d been harboring bad feelings about Douglas all this time.

  “. . . Do our best, that’s all we can do. After that, it’s up to them. Nobody’s going to blame you for what Doug’s done. . .”

  As for Jeffrey—Jeffrey hadn’t said anything yet, and he probably wouldn’t. He didn’t tend to get as irrational as the other two.

  “. . . Not your fault, that’s what I say. Not your fault at all.”

  Fred’s thoughts ground to a halt and he looked into George’s watery blue eyes. “What’s my fault?”

  George blinked in surprise. “Nothing. That’s what I’m saying. Can’t hold a man responsible for the things his kids do after they’re raised.”

  “None of my kids has done anything.”

  George’s gaze faltered. “Well . . . No. What I mean is—”

  “What you mean is that people think Douglas is guilty?”

  “I didn’t say that.” George looked uneasy.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Now, don’t go taking offense at something I didn’t mean. That’s a weak spot with you, Fred—taking offense. People can have the best of intentions, but if you think they’re saying something—even if they’re not—you take offense.”

  Whether or not he did it often, Fred was taking offense now. Weak spot. Believing Douglas was guilty. Blaming him for something Douglas hadn’t even done. He didn’t want to hear another word or he’d say something that would make George take offense. On purpose.

  Fred pushed himself out of the booth just as Liz approached with a coffee pot in hand. It must have been the look on his face that made her turn on her heel and walk away.

  George got to his feet. “You call my boy David. He’ll be glad to help out.” Then, with a nod and an injured look, he turned away.

  Fred sat back down. Peace and quiet, that’s all he wanted. And a chance to sort through his jumbled thoughts. He caught Liz’s eye and beckoned her back.

  She filled his cup and pulled out her order pad.

  “Nothing for me this morning, Liz. Just coffee.”

  She nodded and turned to go.

  “Liz? Is that what everybody in town thinks—that Douglas is guilty?”

  “Not everybody.”

  “Most folks?”

  “A few.” She stuffed the order pad into her apron pocket. “Just a few.”

  Knowing that even a few believed it made him angry. Realizing some absolved him of non-existent guilt rankled. And he knew others probably blamed him for childhood experiences or neglect that somehow drove Douglas to crime.

  “Have you heard anything you think I ought to know?”

  Liz shook her head. “Nothing. Grady isn’t even talking about it.” Someone at the counter called out, and with a last glance at him, she left.

  This kind of unnatural quiet from the sheriff’s office—especially knowing that Grady wasn’t talking to his mother—made Fred uneasy. Grady never kept anything from Liz, unless it was something serious.

  Liz dropped a few quarters into the jukebox as she passed, and seconds later Elvis began to sing “Kentucky Rain”. The melancholy tune didn’t help one bit. Fred nursed his coffee, wishing he could find some solitude at home and wondering how he’d ever find a way to help Douglas when the door opened and Celeste Devereaux stepped inside.

  Of all the people in town, Fred wanted to see her less than anyone. Wishing he could make himself invisible he hunched into the corner of the booth, but she spied him immediately and clinked her way toward him. Damn.

  “This is incredible!” she gushed, stuffing herself into the seat across from him and sitting squarely on his jacket. “Imagine running into you of all people.”

  Imagine.

  “It’s a sign, that’s what it is.”

  Fred would have called it something else.

  Celeste waved at Liz and searched neighboring tables for another cup. “You’ll never believe where I’ve been.” She spied one and lunged out of her seat to snag it. “Summer Dey’s—can you believe it?” She lowered her voice and stage-whispered, “I’ve just had a reading done.”

  Summer Dey, Cutler’s resident nutcase, ran the Cosmic Tradition, a New Age art and bookstore. She claimed to be psychic, but Fred thought it was all a bunch of nonsense. He avoided her whenever he could. He didn’t have a clue what Celeste was talking about, and knowing Summer, he didn’t think he wanted one.

  Celeste patted her red hair, smiled with pink-lips up at Liz, and turned her attention back to Fred only when Liz walked away again. “Aren’t you going to ask me what she said?”

  “Who?”

  “Summer! In my reading.”

  Not a chance.

  Celeste didn’t seem to notice his utter lack of interest. “There’s a new man in my life. It was all right there in the cards. I cut them and there he was—the King of Hearts!” She sipped heartily and looked at Fred from under her lashes in a way that made his heart sink. He’d seen that look in a few movies and he knew what it meant. But if she imagined him a
s the King of Hearts, she’d have to start playing with a new deck.

  “And she said I should use it for my next book—that I’d make a million. My heroine, Gazelle Leone, returns to her home town after her husband leaves her and just guess what happens.”

  Elvis changed moods and started singing “Burning Love.” Good Lord. Fred had to get out of here.

  “Rafe Hunter, her true love, still lives there, but his wife has died! And from the minute she sees him again, Gazelle knows they’re destined to be together. It’s going to be absolutely beautiful.” She reached a hand toward him and her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  Fred jerked his hand away and considered the wisdom of abandoning his jacket to its place beneath her. No question, the jacket would have to go. He slid toward the edge of the booth and almost made his escape when her mood suddenly shifted, her eyes dulled and her face lost its dreaminess.

  “Oh Fred, don’t go.”

  He mumbled something about having things to do and stood.

  “There’s something important I need to talk with you about.”

  “Another time, maybe.”

  “It’s about Suzanne—”

  All the more reason to get away.

  “—and Garrett.” She reached for his arm and held. “I’ve just heard the most disturbing news.”

  He hesitated then sat back down. No matter the source, he couldn’t ignore anything that might help Douglas. “What is it?”

  She looked around, as if making sure they couldn’t be overheard, then mouthed, “Olivia.”

  “Olivia?”

  Holding one finger over her lips, she checked the area again, then whispered, “I heard she was very angry with Garrett for dating Suzanne again. So angry, in fact, she might have done anything to put a stop to it.”

  A chill skittered up Fred’s spine. “Where did you hear that?”

  Celeste shook her head, refusing to divulge her source. “I think you ought to talk with her.”

  At last. Here was something they could agree on. He checked his watch and wondered if Margaret had driven past to check on him yet. He didn’t want to sit here much longer. He’d waited long enough to pay that condolence call on Olivia Simms.

  He got back up, glanced quickly at the hem of his jacket, barely visible under Celeste’s hips, and decided he’d retrieve the jacket later. Liz would keep it for him. “I appreciate you telling me, Celeste.”

  She struggled to her feet and followed him to the door. “Don’t you want me to go with you?”

  “No.” Not if his life depended on it.

  “But—”

  “No.” He wrenched open the door, stepped through and let it slam behind him. To his immense relief, Celeste didn’t follow him outside.

  He glowered across the street at the deceptively innocent-looking windows of Summer’s store, The Cosmic Tradition, then stormed down the sidewalk. Later he’d pay Summer a little visit and let her know how much he resented her interference. But that would have to wait. He needed to get his car and head down to Olivia’s before Celeste decided to follow him after all or Margaret realized what he was doing.

  Maybe money wasn’t Olivia’s only motive for wanting her brother out of the way. If she really was angry about his relationship with Suzanne, that might have been all she needed to push her over the edge already created by her financial troubles. If Olivia really was the missing link, he could take that to Enos.

  He walked quickly, reaching home in under fifteen minutes in spite of the persistent ache in his knees. But the instant he came around the corner, he smelled trouble. Margaret’s car was still there. So was Douglas’s. But Fred’s Buick was suspiciously absent.

  Margaret met him coming up the walk. “I don’t imagine you’ll do anything about this.”

  “Where’s my car?”

  “Ask your son.”

  His shoulders drooped, as if a heavy weight had settled on them. “Is my son home?”

  She gave him a piteous look and spoke slowly, as if he were too old to understand. “No, he’s with your car.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.” She turned back toward the house.

  “And I don’t suppose you feel like telling me what happened after I left.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but we didn’t argue. He waited until I went out back, then he took your car. I didn’t even notice he was gone until I came back inside.”

  Fred didn’t have to think very hard to imagine where Douglas had gone. He might be old, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “You know where he’s gone, don’t you? Suzanne’s.” She spat out the name as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  Fred opened the front door and held it until she passed through. “Maybe. We don’t know that for sure.”

  “What is he thinking of?”

  “Now, Margaret—”

  “Can’t he see what he’s doing? Can’t he see how much worse he’s making it for himself?” Her voice kept its hard edge but tears pooled in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and turned toward the window.

  Fred lowered himself into his rocking chair, wincing when his knees twinged in protest. Maybe it was just as well he didn’t have his car. It might do him good to rest a bit before he drove down to see Olivia.

  “So what are you going to do?” Margaret demanded.

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Call him. Go get him and make him come home. I’ll even take you over there.”

  If he thought it might work, he’d do it in a second. But starting an argument between his kids in public would only make matters worse. He sighed and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “Are you under some kind of delusion that my word carries more weight with Douglas than it does with you? You don’t really think he’s going to turn around and come home because I go after him, do you?”

  Margaret hesitated. “You can’t let him run off like this.”

  “I don’t see that I can do anything about it.”

  “You’ve got to try.”

  “Unless Suzanne gets a restraining order, there’s no reason except common sense why Douglas shouldn’t go over there. I said I’d try to convince him to stay away, but I can’t lock him up.”

  Margaret opened her mouth, a protest on the end of her tongue, when the telephone jangled. Expelling her breath loudly, she grabbed up the receiver. “Hello? . . . Oh, Webb.” She turned away and lowered her voice, probably to keep Fred from hearing the exchange with her husband. Webb must be unhappy to find her gone. She checked the time on her watch and spoke again, too softly for Fred to hear.

  Just about lunch time. In nearly thirty years Webb still hadn’t learned how to fix his own lunch. The man would wither to nothing without Margaret.

  “—in a few minutes. Yes.” Margaret straightened her shoulders and turned halfway back, then paused. At Webb’s next words, she darted a glance at Fred. “You saw Dad’s car where? At Suzanne’s? And what else?” She spoke loudly now, obviously wanting Fred to hear this part. “Enos’s truck? Really—”

  She turned an I-told-you-so look in Fred’s direction. “Isn’t that interesting? I’ll be sure and tell him. No, Dad’s here. Douglas took his car.”

  Enos’s truck and Douglas in the same three-block radius? Not a good sign. Fred pushed himself out of his chair as Margaret replaced the receiver. Holding up one hand, he motioned her not to speak. He didn’t want to hear it.

  But that didn’t stop her. “So—?” she demanded.

  “So I guess maybe you ought to take me over there.”

  Nodding in a self-satisfied way, she grabbed up her keys and opened the door. But her face froze in a look of disbelief and she half-turned back toward Fred just as Douglas appeared in the doorway. This time Fred used the I-told-you-so look.

  Whistling, Douglas dropped Fred’s keys onto a table and slipped out of his jacket.

  “Where have you been?” Margaret demanded.
<
br />   Douglas tossed his jacket over the back of the sofa. “Out.”

  “You’ve been at Suzanne’s, haven’t you?” Margaret pushed the front door closed and threw her keys down beside Fred’s.

  “What if I was?” Douglas dropped onto the sofa and stretched his arms across its back.

  “Webb just called. He said he saw Dad’s car there—and Enos’s truck.”

  “Yeah, Enos was there for a second.”

  Fred lowered himself back into his rocking chair. “There wasn’t any trouble?”

  “No trouble.” Douglas’s mouth stretched wide in a yawn. “I didn’t get to see Alison, though. She wasn’t home.”

  Perching on the arm of the sofa, Margaret asked, “Why did you try to see Alison after Suzanne asked you to stay away and Dad told you not to?”

  “She’s my daughter.” Obviously unwilling to offer further explanation, Douglas picked up the newspaper and unfolded a section.

  Margaret yanked the paper from his hands. “I’m not through talking to you.”

  “No? Well, I am.” He picked up another section of the paper and held it in front of his face.

  Margaret flushed with anger and Fred groaned silently. He loved his children dearly, but at this moment he wished he could turn them both out of the house for a while.

  Growing up, these two had been closer to each other than to either of the other boys. Douglas had consistently turned Margaret’s intensity to laughter, and Margaret had taken Douglas’s dreams seriously when no one else had.

  Of all his children, Fred had expected Margaret to give Douglas the support he needed. Instead, she was being unreasonably hard on her brother. And Fred hated to see it, though he understood her frustration—Douglas’s stubborn refusal to listen to reason grated on his nerves.

  Margaret turned to Fred, pleading silently for his help, and he didn’t know what to do. Douglas yawned again and folded the newspaper, and Fred felt a faint hope stir. “Tired, son?”

  Douglas nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Very. I haven’t slept very well the last few nights.” He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and let his eyes close.

  “Maybe you ought to lie down for a while.”

  Douglas reared up, looking suspicious. “Why?”